Book Girl and the Corrupted Angel (9 page)

What now, what now?
Thoughts tearing at my belly, I held my breath and drew closer.

I peeked at his open book from behind, and instantly a spasm of horror shot down my spine.

My entire body was chilled immediately, as if someone had dumped cold water over my head.

It was a hardcover edition of Miu Inoue’s book…

Why was he reading Miu’s book of all things?!

Camellia’s profile flashed before my eyes with perfect clarity. Could Omi know something about Mito? No, I was overthinking things.

I choked down a hard lump in my throat and called out to him.

“That’s by Miu Inoue, right?”

Omi turned around. He saw my face, and his eyes narrowed behind his glasses’ frames, as if disgusted by who had come visiting.

At first glance, he looked like any other modern boy, but there was unusual power in his gaze. My belly cramped, and sweat broke out on my palms.
Calm down.
He wasn’t much bigger than me. He was just a regular boy who was younger than me, right?

“You like stuff like that?”

Omi answered in a frosty tone, “No, I hate it. This book and Miu Inoue, too.”

His words sliced my chest open and slammed me against the floor of an abyss.

I couldn’t move a muscle. He kept his sharp, venomous gaze fixed on me and went on spitefully. “It’s tripe with nothing but amateur phrasing, like something an elementary school student would write, and there are sickeningly sweet word choices dripping all over every page. The main character’s idiotic optimism and hypocrisy remind me exactly of a certain someone, and it pisses me off.”

His eyes glinted like a feral dog’s. His words were heavy with scorn.

They were the same as the words I’d spat out in front of the girls from my class once.

“What’s so interesting about that book? The writing is bad, the composition is sloppy—it’s like being forced to read a not-too-bright middle schooler’s shallow poetry. It’s laughable.

“Don’t you think everyone just made a big deal out of it because a fourteen-year-old girl won the award?

“I hate Miu Inoue.”

Yes, I thought the way you do absolutely. That a book like this is terrible and has no value whatsoever. That it was some kind of mistake that everyone was making a fuss over someone like me.

That I hated Miu Inoue more than anything in the world.

“I dunno how she wasn’t ashamed to write about a pretty little world that’s bright in every last crevice and spilling over with all this benevolence. The stuff this book talks about is nothing but lies. People like this— like Miu Inoue or Mariya or you—who can only see the surface of things or of other people’s hearts, who believe the sun shines for them and that they can walk brazenly down the middle of the street, hurt people and force them into corners naively.”

I’d never had Miu Inoue criticized to my face by another person before. I’d had no idea it would stab into my heart like this and hurt so unbearably. That it would affect me so much…

My steps faltered, and I almost fell over. Then I said, “Sorry for interrupting,” and fled the library.

Even if it was pathetic, even if it was ignoble, I couldn’t stand to be the object of his hate-filled gaze anymore, to be cut apart by the knives of his black words.

I knew better than anyone that Miu’s book was nothing but lies.

Reality wasn’t that kind or that beautiful; prayers and promises were nothing but dreams that passed by in a moment.

A peaceful life would be shattered all too easily, the couple who smiled at each other and interlaced their fingers would go their separate ways, and memories were nothing more than poison that dredged up turmoil.

I didn’t know how to handle the fever and pain coursing through my body.

I hate Miu Inoue! The fact is, Miu Inoue and her book are both corrupt and caked with lies.

I know that! I
know
!

In the empty corridor, I rested my hand on the wall and took several shallow breaths. Cold sweat covered me, and a throbbing chill snaked through me, as if I had caught an evil cold.

Just as I was about to slump to the floor, someone touched my shoulder.

“Is something the matter, Inoue?”

When I turned around and looked up, I saw Mr. Mariya standing behind me, holding me up.

“Mr. Mariya…”

“You look awful. Do you want to go to the nurse’s office?” he asked worriedly, knitting his brows.

I shook my head feebly. “I’m fine. I’ll have it under control…soon…”

Mr. Mariya’s brow furrowed even more deeply.

“You don’t look like you’ll be fine. If you don’t want to go to the nurse, then let’s go to the music room. Teacher’s orders. Come with me.”

“Here you go.”

“Thank you.”

The aroma of cinnamon wafted over to me in a white cloud of steam.

I accepted with both hands the hot chai that Mr. Mariya offered to me with a kind smile, then drank it sip by sip, blowing on it intermittently.

The music room was blindingly bright with light streaming in the window, and it was quiet and warm.

My breathing returned to normal and my sweat dried, but a chilling ache persisted inside my heart.

Mr. Mariya gazed at me with a gentle expression as he drank his own chai, and then he asked, “What happened?”

I paused.

“It’s all right if you don’t want to talk about it.”

“…Have you ever been hated, Mr. Mariya?”

“Did you have a fight with Nanase, then?”

My fingers tightened around the paper cup, and I hung my head, prompting Mr. Mariya to say quietly, “I have been hated, yes.”

When I looked up, he was staring out the window, a melancholy expression on his face.

“My parents were musicians, so my whole life I’ve been expected to become a professional, and I never questioned that. But over time, my music stopped meshing with the voices around me…I was unable to reconcile myself very well with them and stopped caring about anything. I wanted to wipe out my name and the life that was mine. At the time, I nursed such thoughts every day.”

I watched Mr. Mariya’s face in profile and listened to his sorrowful voice.

Mr. Mariya rested a hand gently on the heavy-looking watch around his wrist, and a placid yet somehow mournful smile came over his face. He murmured, “I suppose that’s why I became a teacher and why I’m here. So that I wouldn’t have to hate myself.”

Mr. Mariya might have found it torture to be called a genius and to be treated specially…like I’d shuddered every time Miu Inoue was celebrated on TV or in the papers.

“Which reminds me, has Mito been found?”

“No…we only have a clue about the Angel of Music.”

“I see…”

As my eyes clouded over, Mr. Mariya’s voice became tinged with gloom once again, and he murmured, “It may be best if you don’t look for her anymore.”

“Why?” I asked, startled.

“If Mito went into hiding of her own volition, perhaps she doesn’t wish to be found.”

Shoko had said that when he was still in school, Mr. Mariya had disappeared one day out of the blue.

Maybe he was remembering that. His voice was rough and frail.

“The truth doesn’t always help people. There are some things people are happier not knowing.

“People who dream of being artists in particular…they’re all very cowardly and have no confidence and are easy to influence. While they’re praised for their talent, they’re up against a wall, and it’s hard, so hard, and there are no options left for them…Even so, I’ve seen a fair number of people who can’t give up, and their hearts grow sick. I really do wonder why they need to be pushed so far. Talent is a very dubious thing, and there has never been and will never be a clear way to measure it. The illusion of talent can at times be a weapon to hurt people. Even though beautiful music is equal for its listeners, it’s not like that for those who bring it into being. And their talent can’t continue forever.

“Even a singer who was called an angel, who burned brilliantly, immersed in the people’s praise, is forgotten now…He doesn’t sing anymore.”

When he said the word
angel
, a fierce pain came into Mr. Mariya’s eyes.

“Why did the angel stop singing?”

Mr. Mariya murmured sadly, “Someone…died. An old musician slit his wrists while he listened to the angel’s hymns.”

I gasped at this shocking story, and Mr. Mariya went on with even more difficulty.

“The angel made people unlucky, caused their destruction. The angel’s singing was filled with corruption and pushed many people to their deaths. So the angel doesn’t sing anymore. He mustn’t,” Mr. Mariya declared, gripping his wrists. He looked as if he blamed himself.

Did the angel Mr. Mariya spoke of have something to do with Mito…?

And Mr. Mariya…no, could he himself be—

“He was our rising star.”

“They said he could be a symbol of Japanese opera.”

Mr. Mariya looked extremely tired, but he sucked in a breath, as if shaking something off, and picked up the paper cup he had set down on the table.

Then he looked at me and faintly, sadly he smiled.

“You know, Inoue, success is a fleeting thing for an artist. Personally, I choose to have this cup of chai instead.”

I wonder what Miu Inoue is like…

Sometimes I picture her as I turn the pages.

A weekly magazine wrote that she might be a rich sophisticate, but I think Miu is a regular girl. That she’s a happy, ordinary girl with a family, friends, and a person that she likes.

A wonderful girl who’s surely kind and innocent and always laughing…

I like Miu’s book because it has a ton of pretty photos in it instead of illustrations.

Photos of blue skies, open fields, rain, a pool, a gymnasium, a water fountain, a chin-up bar…perfectly ordinary and yet nostalgic things.

Also loving feelings, a faithful heart, an important promise.

It fills my heart with beautiful, pure stuff.

I wish you would read Miu, too, Nanase.

I know you’d love it, but before when I told you, “Miu Inoue’s the same age as us. I wonder what she’s like,” you sulked and said, “If she won’t show her face, she must be a dog.”

You say awful things, Nanase, but you’re not mean. You’ve never been the kind of girl to say stuff like that, though…

I hung your picture back up in the living room, Nanase. You’re frowning a little in it, and you look so cute.

The whole wall is covered in pictures of my angel, you, and me. And then the blue roses.

As I gaze at them, I pray from my corruption.

That you’ll be happy and be at peace, Nanase.

That you’ll be surrounded by family and friends in the warm light of day to which I can’t return and that you’ll laugh from the heart.

That your love might come true at least.

I hope you’ll have a love like Itsuki and Hatori’s in Miu Inoue’s novel.